


The Myth of Greatness

by airspaniel, cerebel



Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Banner isn’t going to fight him, not yet, and that’s terribly disappointing. But there are other ways to provoke a reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Myth of Greatness

It’s not long before his uniform is soaked through. The thunder is loud enough to shake the ground, and Emil Blonsky runs without fatigue, without misstep. 

Bruce Banner is proving pathetically easy to track. Broken branches, muddy imprints, and anyone with half a brain and an eighth Blonsky’s training would be able to hunt him down. There’s no military behind him, though. Hasn’t been since campus. He would wonder about it, but it doesn’t matter to him. No backup is necessary. If he catches Banner, he’ll kill the man – or the monster – himself. 

His radio is gone – so is his gun. They’re both immaterial. Extra weight would only slow him down.

Blonsky pauses, for a moment, poised on a ridge. A highway snakes past him to the left; the forest stretches on towards a rolling peak on the right. 

Lightning flashes; thunder crackles, fast on its heels. He shakes water-slicked hair out of his face.

He hears a roar, from up ahead. The monster, challenging the gods. A half-smile crosses his face, and he starts running, moving crosswise down the slope. Not too far now.

There’s something of the scientist in Banner’s new form, Blonsky supposes. Something of the pacifist, that runs too deep. Otherwise he never would have run away. He crushed the forces sent after him like so many ants – because he was more than them. 

General Ross must have noticed Blonsky’s absence by now. Perhaps he’ll try to send help.

Blonsky doubts it. The terrain is rough; a helicopter couldn’t track as easily as a man on foot, and no man on foot can move at the pace that Blonsky is matching. 

He hears the low, huffing breath before he sees Banner’s form; he’s taken shelter under some kind of overhang.

Blonsky flattens against a nearby tree, considering his options. Skilled though he may be, the creature’s hide is tough enough to deflect bullets like the raindrops, so he doubts his field knife is going to have much effect. But the chase seems to be over, for the moment, and Banner is unaware of his presence, broad green shoulders curling protectively forward; hiding his face from view.

He moves quietly, more stealth than he probably needs given the noise of the downpour, but he’s still not sure of Banner’s limits and the only weapon he has is surprise.

And god help him, he’s curious. He’s never exactly been the covetous type, but this? Who wouldn’t want this? All that power, heaving under the surface; just waiting to be mastered. It does make his mouth water a little.

Banner looks miserable, though, dark hair drenched and plastered against his forehead, completely obscuring the narrow band of his face not hidden by his arms. His chest shudders slightly with every exhalation, and Blonsky draws closer still, wanting to witness the change.

He wonders what it’s like, when the flesh withdraws and the sinews recede; wonders if it’s a slow, shriveling thing, or explosive, sudden, like a target building laced with C4. He wonders if it hurts.

His lips curl back in a vicious smile. He really hopes it does.

But when moments pass and nothing happens, nothing save the harsh breathing of the body curled up by the rock face, Blonsky starts to think that maybe Banner isn’t going to change after all. Maybe he’s actually just crying.

The wave of disgust he feels is so strong, it’s nearly nausea. He remains silent and still, hidden by the water and the woods, but he can’t stand here much longer, waiting. He is a predator, he has hunted and cornered his prey, and he has to go in for the kill. His body demands it.

But he’s barely taken a half-step forward when the form in front of him shudders – but above the white noise of the rain, he imagines he can hear muscles re-arranging, tendons tightening, bones shrinking. He’s transfixed in fascination; the power disappears, the strength disappears, green fades to tan. The form left behind is pathetically small, bedraggled, barely dressed in the torn remnants of Banner’s clothing. 

Blonsky hisses in disappointment, frustration. He moves at a speed he knows would be too fast for the eye to follow – draws his field knife and rams it, point first, into the nearest tree. He nearly splits it open with the force of the blow, but it doesn’t matter. The monster is locked up again, inside the man, and Blonsky’s prey has made his escape.

He approaches Banner with care. It isn’t as though the scientist poses any real threat, but, of course, a lifetime of experience dies hard, and Blonsky is always ready.

There’s no need for any caution. Banner’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing evenly. He doesn’t even twitch from the thunder. Unconscious, then. He’s curled on his side, the vulnerability a frustrating counterpart for the pure power Blonsky has seen from the hulk. 

Blonsky’s jaw tightens. He takes Banner’s shoulder, roughly pulls him onto his back. There are pockmarks, scratches, bruises on the too-pale skin. Blonsky hadn’t noticed them before. He almost reaches out, his touch too light to awaken, tracing along the largest of the cuts. It makes a gentle curve, down Bruce’s stomach. 

Which attack, Blonsky wonders. Was it a bullet that made this? 

He catches himself, abruptly, and pulls back. Thunder tolls distantly, delayed from the latest flash of lightning. The storm is moving away.

Blonsky crouches, fixing Banner under his regard. The reversion was interesting. It seems as though the monster only breaks out when Banner is attacked, or under an emotional stress he can’t control. Does the monster want to break out, then? Does he like the power it gives him? 

Could he activate it at will, if he so chose? 

His prey hasn’t escaped, Blonsky decides. This is just a delay, and delay is something he can cope with.

Banner’s form is light, when Blonsky lifts him. Whether a product of his slight body or his own newfound strength, Blonsky doesn’t know. But carrying him won’t be a problem. This battle isn’t over, not by half, but a change of venue is definitely in order.

_____ 

The motel on the interstate doesn’t ask any questions and, even better, is almost entirely deserted. The woman at the front desk just hands over the keys (“Room 599, as far back as you can get without hittin’ the woods again, just like you asked.”) with a casual shrug and turns her attention back to the dingy black and white TV set, thoroughly engrossed in the outraged shriekings of a husband who’s just discovered his wife is actually a man.

Well, we all have our secrets. 

Blonsky adjusts Banner’s weight against his side and hauls him to the room, dumping his still motionless body unceremoniously on the bed. Banner stays as he falls, sprawled out on his stomach, one arm hanging limply over the side. He looks fragile, and painfully young, brow still furrowed slightly even as his lips are parted and relaxed in sleep; as if he still had to fight the beast inside him.

Perhaps he is still fighting it. Perhaps the slightest provocation would be enough, while Banner is so weak and weary, to unleash that awesome force he doesn’t deserve to have.

Blonsky is running short on patience. He pulls Banner up, turns him over, throwing him back against the headboard with no effort at all. There’s no transformation this time, only a slow flicker of awareness in half-lidded ocean-green eyes.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” Blonsky spits, reaching his hand back and slapping Banner hard across the face. “Naptime’s over.”

Banner groans, still only half-conscious, and Blonsky repeats the motion. The crack of skin against skin seems louder, this time. He sees Banner’s eyes flicker, then snap, quick as a whip, to full awareness. 

Banner brings up a hand, to defend himself, maybe to attack back –

Blonsky catches his wrist, squeezes hard enough for Banner to really feel it. His eyes trace Banner’s face. His eyes are clear, there’s no hint of the right kind of green.

“Who the hell are you?” spits Banner. Defiant, almost, but Blonsky can see the fear in his eyes. 

Banner’s words catch up with him, then, and Blonsky pauses. “You don’t know?” he asks. He holds Banner’s gaze, and watches as the realization hits Banner, one piece at a time, the false bravado giving way to apprehension and then, as Banner’s eyes take in the motel room, the stained ceiling, the cheap artwork, apprehension finally fades to something just short of outright terror.

Perfect.

“What do you want?” asks Banner, softer, enunciated with the kind of care reserved for suppressing too-intense emotion. And indeed, Banner’s breathing has evened out, and he’s relaxed in Blonsky’s grip. Ignoring the pain in his wrist, no doubt.

This – is unacceptable. The battle hasn’t begun and already Blonsky is losing.

Blonsky lets his fingertips drift to Banner’s collarbone, tracing a bruise with the edge of his thumb. “What is it,” he asks, “that you remember?”

“Hey!” protests Banner, trying to twist away, his free hand moving up to shield himself. 

Blonsky snatches it, in the same hand that already holds Banner’s other arm, and slams both against the headboard, above and behind Banner’s head. Banner’s struggles are no match for him, and the movement brings them close, very close, enough that he can feel Banner’s now-rapid breath against his skin. The man swallows heavily, sucking in a deep breath and holding it, counting, forcing himself to exhale slowly and deliberately, even as Blonsky’s fingers crush new purple-black marks into the pale flesh of his wrists.

“What do you want from me?” Banner repeats, voice level even as his eyes are defiant, but damn it all, still the wrong color. His free hand itches with the urge to strike again, to hold Banner down and beat him until they change; the violent, radioactive green he so wants to see or the dull, glassy glaze of death, either would suffice.

But Blonsky hasn’t made it this far in his career, in his life, without recognizing when and how to shift his tactics. Banner isn’t going to fight him, not yet, and that’s terribly disappointing. But there are other ways to provoke a reaction.

He doesn’t answer the question, merely runs his thumb again over that dark bruise on Banner’s collarbone, a touch so light it’s hardly there at all. Unable to resist the impulse, he presses down hard, savoring the pained gasp it forces out of his captive. Blonsky chuckles low in his throat, easing up and just barely dragging his fingernails over the abused skin.

He still doesn’t answer the question, but lowers his head slowly, and the look of confusion and rising panic on Banner’s face is delicious.

“What are you…?” asks Banner, but never finishes the sentence, as Blonsky follows the movement of his hand with his lips, a dry brush against overheated skin that makes Banner hiss, and he can’t help but smile against the bruise.

There is something to be said for the element of surprise.

Banner’s entire body is taut, tight with the strain of keeping control, but his heartbeat is speeding up; beating hard and vital against Blonsky’s mouth, and he’s sure he can almost taste it, how close he is to the monster. Banner hangs on, though, by the sheer strength of his control.

“Don’t do this,” says Banner, the words rapid-fire, uncontrolled. “Please don’t do this.”

“You can stop me,” returns Blonsky. He flattens his palm on Banner’s chest, strokes down his stomach. Gently. 

Banner shivers, his eyes closing, and struggles against Blonsky, slim muscles outlining against his skin. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” insists Banner, and he twists, trying to get away, or trying to throw Blonsky off. The effort is useless; Banner might as well have tried to field a forklift, as he did in Blonsky’s first encounter with the monster, in his current weakling form. 

“I think,” says Blonsky, carefully, “that I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Oh, no,” murmurs Banner, then, “no, no – you can’t, you can’t—”

He’s more afraid, Blonsky observes, detached, of the violence, the power inside him, than he is of what Blonsky is doing to him. He has to know that his freedom is over, that his only chance of escape is to let that side of him emerge. And yet he resists.

He’s breathing again. It’s deep, even, rhythmic breathing, designed to slow his heartbeat, calm his moods. He’s remarkably good at it, more than Blonsky expected. But remarkable can only go so far.

The kiss – less of a kiss, really, than it is another battle – cuts off Banner’s air mid-breath, interrupting his rhythm. Banner isn’t prepared for it; his eyes were closed, and Blonsky is ready for the flinch of disgust, the reflexive, but ultimately hopeless, attempt to pull away. He holds it only to stop that infernal breathing, to trap Banner, to finally attack him in a way he can’t defend.

But Blonsky isn’t ready for the acquiescence. He’s not ready for the kiss to not only force Banner to concede, but to, even just a little, drag a response from him. He wasn’t prepared, in short, for Banner to, even for an instant, kiss him back.

When Blonsky pulls back, Banner’s eyes are wide. Shocked by his own response, Blonsky surmises. 

Blonsky can use that. 

He slips his hand down further still, sliding easily under the torn waistband of Banner’s pants and stopping there, just resting against the warm skin beneath. Banner’s pulse is even stronger here, and his skin feels so thin, so delicate and sickeningly soft. Blonsky curls his fingers and rakes his nails up Banner’s stomach, scratching over the shallow curving graze that marks his torso, and Banner cries out, clenching his abdominal muscles against the pain.

It wasn’t enough, isn’t enough, and Blonsky growls in frustration. He surges up again, swallowing the last of the wounded noise that escapes Banner’s lips. The kiss is hard and dominating, and this time Banner does try to pull away, but that isn’t enough either. Blonsky cuts off his retreat with a sharp bite to his lower lip, and Banner makes a small shocked sound and lets his mouth fall open.

His mouth tastes like blood and fear, and it is intoxicating. Blonsky licks deep, chasing the flavor past Banner’s lips with single-minded intensity. Banner makes another soft noise of protest, almost a whimper, even as his head turns just enough to change the angle, let Blonsky in deeper.

And for a moment, Blonsky allows it. Lets Banner have the tiniest shred of control as he tries to work out what is happening. He can feel the man thinking, feel him consciously relaxing into the act; the tension slowly ebbing out of his body when he’s sure he is all right, sure he can maintain for just a little longer. Just long enough.

Banner arches up again, using all of his weight to try and knock Blonsky off the bed. Blonsky just laughs, throwing a leg over to straddle Banner’s hips, pinning him down even more securely.

“It won’t be that easy,” Blonsky taunts, breath ghosting hot and intimately over Banner’s neck. “You know what I want to see.”

Banner swallows – Blonsky can see the movement of his throat. “You have to stop this,” he pleads.

“Why?” asks Blonsky, propping up Banner’s chin, directing Banner’s eyes to his. “What is it you’re so afraid of?”

Banner thrashes, abruptly, in a bout of fury.

“That’s right,” hisses Blonsky, and Banner stills, gritting his teeth. If Blonsky really did catch a flash of green in his eyes, it was gone too quick to be sure. 

“I won’t,” Banner murmurs, a mantra, too soft to be directed at Blonsky. “I won’t, I won’t –” He turns away, and – in the most unexpected of gestures – rests his forehead, so very lightly, against Blonsky’s arm. The arm that still holds Banner’s wrists captive.

Blonsky fights a wave of frustration. “What’s this?” He tilts his head. “You’re looking to behave, then?”

“Do what you want,” says Banner, tightly. 

He thinks he’s above it, does he.

“Do,” considers Blonsky, “what I want.” He slips in close, so his voice is just next to Banner’s ear. “What I want,” he says, “is for you to get up, go to that bathroom, find the lotion, and come back.”

Banner tenses up again. “No.”

“Right,” says Blonsky. “We’ll go without lubrication then, shall we?”

Banner shoots him a glare, acid and fire, but Blonsky has seen worse. He’s fought worse. And he will defeat Bruce Banner.

“If you run for it,” continues Blonsky, “you really think you can make it to the door?”

Banner’s eyes fall. He shakes his head.

Liar, thinks Blonsky.

He releases Banner, watches as he eases away from the forced position. Wincing at the cramped muscles, and the bruises, no doubt. Blonsky half-expects the break for freedom to come as soon as Banner’s feet have hit the floor, but it doesn’t. The scientist glances back once, and vanishes into the bathroom. Emerges a moment later with a little bottle in the palm of his hand.

Now, guesses Blonsky, but he’s wrong again. Banner is too clever for that; he tosses the bottle, casually, into the air, and he makes a run for it just an instant before the bottle hits Blonsky’s palm.

Not good enough, and not fast enough. Blonsky hits Banner with the tackle, meters short of the door, slamming Banner into cheap, thin carpet stretched tight over a hard floor. Banner’s breath huffs out in a rush, but he doesn’t stay down, using the impact to rebound up and turn them both over; and now it’s Blonsky’s turn to look surprised. But that moment is so brief, so very fleeting, and Banner doesn’t even get the chance to run again before Blonsky has thrown him down, hands tight around his forearms, forcing them up over his head as he shoves his thigh between Banner’s legs.

“Not very smart,” Blonsky hisses his rage into Banner’s face, which is so close now, and so furious, and just a little bit more and… “Not smart at all.” He yanks Banner up by the arms and drops him again, enjoying the dull thud his head makes against the floor.

“There is only one thing that I want from you,” Blonsky continues, murmuring low into Banner’s ear in a gross parody of intimacy. “And there is nothing I will not do to get it, you understand?” He traces a hand down Banner’s bruise-mottled side, pulling the torn pants as far down as possible as he pulls Banner’s hips up; his intent unmistakably clear.

“Now, how long are you going to fight me before you let go and fight me!”

Banner just stares at him, so full of hate and anger, and for a moment Blonsky thinks he’s done it. Banner’s eyes clench shut, and his arms are shaking, and this is going to be so good…

“Go to hell,” Banner whispers when his eyes open. He lifts his chin defiantly, and his eyes… His eyes are still entirely his own.

Blonsky sneers, leaning in close once more, daring Banner to say something else.

“You go to hell,” he repeats, and spits in Blonsky’s face.

Blonsky stays himself, before he reacts. Now, if he acted, he would act in anger. He wants to pound Banner into the ground, hurt him until he has no choice, but perhaps, in the end, that wouldn’t be the worst punishment.

And maybe it’s not the best way to get through that control Banner wields like a sword in his defense. It would be so much more than perfect, to have Banner finally break not because of pain but because of need.

This time, it’s harder to get Banner to respond to the kiss. Blonsky has him pinned, immobile, and Banner is fresh from his newest bout of defiance, too certain that he’ll never give in.

The moment of contact, between their lips, is oddly electric. It takes Banner a moment, a moment of disturbingly sexual physical contact, before he twists in disgust, tries to turn away. Blonsky persists, and for too long Banner’s mouth stays clenched shut, his eyes clear and open. But slowly, bit by bit, it pays off – Bruce’s eyes close, finally, and he relents, just enough.

Blonsky grinds down, his thigh against the junction of Banner’s legs, and Banner turns his head, his back tensing. 

It’s too easy. Blonsky chases the gasp of air into Banner’s mouth, to the man’s teeth, his tongue. Banner is distracted; a shift in muscle is all it takes, and both of Banner’s hands are, once again, held by one of his own. His free hand fumbles, for a moment, with the bottle, but after a lifetime of depending on his coordination, on his reflexes and abilities, one bottle of lotion is not an obstacle.

He traces down Banner’s cleft, and that, finally, is when Banner starts to balk. He tries to close his legs, cut Blonsky off, but the effort is halfhearted. Blonsky saw this, the first time they kissed. It’s the desires inside himself that Banner can’t control – and much as he fears it, he wants this. Whether it’s that Banner hasn’t been touched since before he became this monster, or that he craves, so strongly, someone who isn’t afraid to hurt him, Blonsky doesn’t know. 

“You want this," he says, and it isn't a question. And when Banner turns away, pressing his face against his restrained forearm, Blonsky is sure he's right.

He says it again, because he can't resist gloating, just a little. "You do. If you didn't, I'm betting that beast inside of you wouldn't let me do this." His hand is still moving, not pressing or demanding, but stroking small, slick circles; and Banner's thighs tense up, but this time he keeps them apart.

Blonsky smirks. "How long has it been, Bruce? How long have you been waiting for someone to force you down; take all that iron control away?"

Banner's jaw is clenched tight, and it seems like the only reason his eyes are still open is to taunt Blonsky with their normalcy. They're half-lidded, though, and starting to lose focus, and while it isn't what he wants to see, Blonsky still feels strangely satisfied.

"It scares you, doesn't it? How much you need this,” he chuckles, deliberately stilling the movement of his fingers. “And you want to kill me, I can see it, but not than you want me to..." He curves his hand just slightly and lets a single fingertip slip into Banner's body.

"Stop..." Banner begs, breathless. "Please..."

Blonsky raises his eyebrows, and pushes just a little harder, but oh so slowly. "You really want me to stop?"

"Stop," Banner pants. "Stop talking." He bucks his hips up, forcing himself further onto Blonsky's hand.  
Which pulls away, sudden and rough, and Banner makes a harsh, frustrated sound at the loss. Blonsky leans in, pressing Banner's legs up against his chest.

"You won't give me what I want." Blonsky growls right into Banner's face. "Why on earth should I listen to you?"

And perhaps Blonsky should have been expecting it; should have anticipated the quick motion of Banner’s head as the man darts forward, silencing Blonsky with greedy lips and sharp teeth. Where the other kisses were coaxed, this one is immediate, rough, and Banner is oh so very willing.

Blonsky isn’t sure which way he prefers.

He seizes Banner’s thigh, and twists it up, out of the way. The man doesn’t react with pain, as Blonsky expects (wishes), but goes with the movement, gasping in a strange, still-restrained way. 

No.

Blonsky works three fingers inside Banner, at a speed he knows must be disorientingly fast. And the reaction is all he could have hoped for. Banner’s forehead creases, jaw clenched again like he’s in pain, like he doesn’t want to make a sound.

“Tell me you need this,” says Blonsky, surprised at the still-distant detachment of his voice.

“No,” returns Banner, through his teeth.

Blonsky strokes, inside Banner, searches, and Banner has to feel it. From the way he moves, pulls restlessly against Blonsky’s unbreakable grip, the way he inhales, just a little too fast.

And then Banner jerks, helplessly, his eyes flying wide open.

Just there, then.

“Say. It.” His voice is almost grim, but he wants, maybe as badly as Banner does. He imagines, all too vividly, how tight the man would be, how perhaps he would still struggle, only this time he’d be struggling for more.

Banner’s lips are drawn into a tight line. His control, still, is impressive, but Blonsky can break him. He could break him at any time.

Another stroke, firm and fast, right over that spot, that perfect spot, and Banner shudders, biting back a whimper.

“You think I could make you come like this?” wonders Blonsky, out loud. “Or do you want it to hurt?” His hand clamps down, viciously, on Banner’s wrists, in emphasis.

“No, I,” begins Banner – cuts himself off, squirming as Blonsky moves inside him, once more. 

“What’ll it be, then?” pursues Blonsky.

“I don’t,” breathes Banner. Then, “please,” on an exhale, barely a whisper.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you.” The threat is empty, weightless as the almost panting breath that forces it out, and Blonsky doesn’t even react to his defiance.

“Almost,” Blonsky taunts, pulling his hand back slowly, easing out one finger at a time, and Banner twitches around each of them as they go.

Blonsky looks down at the nearly naked body underneath him, so weak compared to the will that drives it, the power he knows it hides. And though this isn’t remotely how he expected this confrontation to go, his ability to assess and improvise has always served him well.

“So close that time,” he says, coating his hand once more with the cheap motel lotion. Banner cants his hips up and bites his lip, and he seems so sure he knows what’s coming. Seems like he wants more of the same abuse.

So all the breath is knocked out of him when that slick hand skims up over his hip; wrapping gently, too gently, around his cock. Blonsky doesn’t move his hand, just holds on and watches Banner fight it, fight the urge to thrust up into his grasp.

“Try again?” Blonsky smirks, running the ball of his thumb slowly up Banner’s shaft. The man drags in a shuddering breath, and the exhalation is a plea of sorts, but far from being words. “Tell me.”

Banner remains stubbornly silent, and Blonsky is rapidly losing his patience. He tightens his grip, rolling the palm of his hand firmly over the slick head of Banner’s erection.

“God! Banner gasps, thrashing so hard that Blonsky is afraid he might’ve triggered the change. And while he hasn’t forgotten why he followed Banner, tracked him through the wild forests and trapped him in this dingy room, he finds that there are other things now that he wants even more.

Blonsky’s fingers dance away from Banner’s abortive thrust. Banner lets his head fall back, with a moan of overwhelmed frustration, too-tense arousal. And Blonsky doesn’t have to say anything now, just wait, touching too lightly to give Banner what he really needs. 

Banner shifts, muscles moving at his shoulders, and he catches Banner’s mouth in another kiss. A power play, of course, and Blonsky all too easily has the upper hand. 

But, no –

There’s something strange, something almost searching about the way Banner surrenders. 

When they pull apart, Banner is flushed, breathing light and rapid but even, still so disgustingly even, but he looks like he’s pining for something he doesn’t understand.

His eyes fall, away from Blonsky’s. “I want it,” he says – pleads. He’s pleading, begging, soft and understated enough that Blonsky could have ripped right through it. And Blonsky chases him back down, and oh god, he wants to pin Banner down, fuck him until he’s senseless, until there’s nothing left. “Fuck,” says Banner, “me,” between kisses, his voice charged to the breaking point.

This is it. Emil Blonsky has finally fucking broken Bruce Banner, and whether it’s through passion or violence (what’s the difference?) doesn’t seem to matter anymore. The hulk, the monster is the furthest thing from Blonsky’s thoughts as he undoes the uniform’s trousers, just enough to release his erection. He may have gotten a thrill from the fight, but was that thrill, that rush, anything at all compared to this?

He barely slicks himself. Perfunctory, that’s all. He’s done waiting, done preparing, and he isn’t so sure that Banner wouldn’t want the pain more. 

Banner’s hands twist in his grasp, and Blonsky looks up. It couldn’t be, Banner wouldn’t be trying to escape, not now. 

No, Blonsky realizes. He’s not trying to escape – he’s just shifted enough that he can brush his fingers against the inside of Blonsky’s wrist. So that he has something to hold on to. 

The surrender sends a frisson of something sweet and electric down his spine, and Blonsky can’t wait any longer, is done playing games. He spends a fraction of a second to line himself up, sliding his hand up the inside of Banner’s thigh as he pushes relentlessly forward, and Banner just tucks his leg up against his chest, drawing him closer and further and yes…

If the entirety of his cognitive process hadn’t been reduced to tight and hot and more, Blonsky might have been touched by Banner’s obedience. As it is, he can only tighten his hand around those too delicate wrists, feeling the blood pound hard and steady under his skin, knowing he is showing a weakness and not willing to let his captive go.

But running seems the furthest thing from Banner’s mind as well, as his fingers scrabble against Blonsky’s wrist, desperate for an anchor. Blonsky doesn’t let go, doesn’t let Banner shift his hands for a firmer hold. Instead he falls forward, pinning Banner’s long legs up and spread, his free hand grabbing hard on Banner’s thigh, pulling him roughly back against his hips; burying himself deep and hard and demanding, again and again.

And Banner just takes it, meets him thrust for thrust and demand for demand, arching his back to drive himself even harder on Blonsky’s cock. His skin is slick with sweat and Blonsky’s grip slips, hand sliding off Banner’s wrist and onto his hands, and Banner holds it, twines their fingers together and doesn’t let go, keeping his arms still pinned above his head.

The change in leverage does incredible things to the angle of his thrusts, and Blonsky can feel his breath getting ragged, his pulse pounding through his entire body and it’s so close now, almost there…

“I need… I need,” Banner’s gasping resolves into words, broken syllables in a voice rubbed raw with want, and Blonsky understands immediately. Clasps his palm around Banner’s erection and jerks, not holding anything back now. 

It hardly takes a touch, anyhow; Banner is already lost. His hands clench on Blonsky’s, knuckles whitening with strain, and Blonsky can feel the buildup, feel the moment when Banner’s orgasm hits him with the force of a freight train. It’s something close to a scream that rips from Banner’s throat, beautiful in intensity, and Blonsky slams in, for the last time, so deep, lets it rush through him, nerves, blood, muscle, bone, everything so alive in this one moment. 

And then it’s gone, nothing left but Bruce Banner panting shallowly into the air, nothing but the empty silence of the motel room and the cold weight of the world outside that door.

Banner flinches when Blonsky pulls away. His movements are weak – he’s one of those, then. Can barely move, afterwards. Indeed, when Blonsky releases Banner’s hands, Banner just relaxes, letting his eyes drift up to meet Blonsky’s.

They’re startling, unguarded but hazy with aftermath. 

Blonsky ignores his newly freed captive. Banner isn’t going anywhere. 

In the bathroom, the washcloth is ragged, but it looks clean enough. Not like the rest of Blonsky isn’t filthy, anyhow. 

He doesn’t mind it, though. Mud and rain is a clean kind of filthy.

When he emerges, Banner is sitting back against one of the two beds, a knee curled protectively towards his chest. “What are you going to do now?” he asks, without looking up.

That’s the question, isn’t it.

“Bring me in?” asks Banner.

Blonsky drops a second washcloth, wet from the sink, on Banner’s lap. “Clean yourself up,” he says, shortly. Crosses his arms.

“Will you at least tell me your name?” persists Banner.

It shouldn’t bother him, shouldn’t even register, it’s so small a thing. But even such a trivial concession seems like giving too much, and Blonsky tightens a fist in irritation. 

“Blonsky,” he says, shortly. There’s no point in holding back now.

There’s silence, for a moment. Then – “I’m not stupid,” says Banner.

Blonsky tilts his head, glancing back at the scientist.

“You take me here,” says Banner. “To a motel room, a place with privacy and a door – a door way too small for it to fit out of.”

They both know what ‘it’ he’s talking about. 

“If you wanted it out of me,” he continues, “you could have beaten it out of me in the forest, on the way, in here – at any time, and you were so close –” He cuts himself off, bites it back, and falls back into silence.

And Blonsky doesn’t have an answer. Not one good enough; not one that doesn’t make him look like a coward and a fool. His lip curls in a snarl, but he can feel the weakness in it, and he averts his eyes.

“You don’t deserve it,” he says. 

“Nobody deserves this,” returns Banner. “And you followed me, alone, you must have carried me in here –” He looks horrified. “You can’t be that fast. Or that strong.”

Blonsky regards him, with a cool stare.

“Oh my god,” breathes Banner, “what did they do to you?”

“Nothing I didn’t ask them to,” dismisses Blonsky. He notes Banner’s efforts to get onto the bed, crippled by his weakened muscles, fatigue, injuries. Before Blonsky consciously makes the decision, he moves – lifts Banner, eases him onto the bed, where Banner doesn’t curl up, but collapses, spread out, held to the bed by simple gravity. He’s not shy, like Blonsky would have expected, but he’s still vulnerable. Even more so, like this. Hot on the heels of that observation, he realizes the absent act of… kindness he’s just performed, and how, how is it possible that such small things make him feel so defeated? No bullets, knives, shrapnel, fists or nails have ever cut him as deeply, or laid him out as effectively as the strange, soft regard in Banner’s face.

There’s a fleck of blood on Banner’s lower lip, a shining crimson stain on the kiss-swollen flesh, and Blonsky focuses on it; a reminder of the man’s pain. Pain which he largely inflicted, Blonsky remembers, and he can’t wholly suppress a smile at the memory. He swipes his thumb over the small wound, bright red on his own callused skin.

“You shouldn’t…” Banner starts, but realizes how futile it is. Blonsky lifts his hand to his mouth, licking the blood from his thumb, and it’s nearly as salt-sweet dangerous and tantalizing as it was in Banner’s mouth when this battle first started.

“I guess it’s a little late to worry about contamination,” finishes Banner lamely. Not that Blonsky was particularly concerned in the first place. He supposes, in some logical corner of his brain, that he was even hoping for it; that the awesome gift than Banner shuns so desperately could be so easily assimilated, made his own.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s better than the alternative.

“What are you going to do?” Banner asks, and his voice is so quiet and hopeful. Blonsky has to get out of here.

“Three days,” says Blonsky. “You have three days to run, hide if you can, and then I’m coming after you.” He stalks to the door, slamming it open, and the sunlight that floods the room is harsh and blinding after the blackness of the rain.

“And when I find you? I am going to kill you.”

Even though he’s exhausted, though his mind and body have been used and abused in the very worst of ways, Banner still manages an insolent tone. “That a threat or a promise?”

Blonsky bristles, but doesn’t turn around. “Bruce?” he hisses, hand clenched tight on the doorknob.

“Yes?” Banner replies, and something in the sleepy sound of his voice makes Blonsky want to grin wickedly, triumphantly. 

“Next time make it interesting,” he growls, and is gone, the taste of his enemy’s blood still on his lips.


End file.
